


We Call Them Miracles

by TheUniverseWillSing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Homecoming, M/M, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseWillSing/pseuds/TheUniverseWillSing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reenlisted!John has a special Christmas gift for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Call Them Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: GRATUITOUS FLUFF

When John called from the base to tell him that leave had not been granted for the holidays, Sherlock understood. He’d set himself up for it, because honestly, John had been home last Christmas and they couldn’t expect to get lucky every time. The reality of the matter was that some other soldier now had a chance to spend time with his family, and after five years with the army doctor - two as flatmates, three in a romantic relationship, and two of those during his reenlistment in the RAMC - Sherlock knew how precious that time could be.

He had smiled down the phone line, hating how flat his voice sounded when he insisted that of course it was fine, _it’s all fine, John._

And it _was_ fine. John was safe, Mycroft was in India with his wife’s parents, and there was a particularly elusive serial killer on the lam. Sherlock would be fine; if anything, John might get leave for Easter, and getting to see him was gift enough.

Although, Christmas was their favorite holiday together. And of course he’d been proud to have found the exact cashmere jumper one of their suspects had been wearing that John had practically salivated over, and would have adored the look on John’s face as he opened it, but...well. They could always Skype.

As the weeks hopped, skipped, and jumped every closer to the dreaded holiday, Sherlock could feel his temper getting shorter than even his usual abysmal record. Twice over Lestrade came dangerously close to throwing him off the case after too many near-scrapes with Anderson, but at the last minute seemed to reign in the urge.

“Keep it in line, Holmes,” warned the DI, “I mean it. Under any other circumstances you’d be right off, but I’m giving you a break...considering.”

That only irritated Sherlock more, to know that his own problems were so obvious to the idiots he was forced to work with on a daily basis. Later, when he saw Lestrade having a quiet word with Anderson and Donovan he felt such a spike of temper that he would have stormed off, had the crime scene not been so interesting. The trio all exchanged conspiratorial grins before rejoining him.

 _”Don’t send my Christmas gift in the post,”_ John warned him a week before Christmas, his face wrinkled and weary for the hour he’d managed to sneak off to the computer.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “Why ever not?”

John shook his head. _”Knowing you, it’s probably far too extravagant to survive out here. I mean it, Sherlock. I don’t want whatever you got me getting all dusty.”_

“Then you can’t send me whatever it is you’ve ordered online either,” he reasoned, deducing that the increased fatigue was not due to overwork but late hours on the internet arranging something special. “We’ll exchange gifts the next time you’re home.”

Once again, John smiled, sending a spike of loneliness straight through Sherlock’s chest. _”Sorry, love, it’s already arranged,”_ he grinned, not sounding at all remorseful. He seemed a bit too cheerful, in fact, considering how disappointed he’d seemed when he told Sherlock the news.

Just as he was beginning to suspect something John swung around in his chair, as though he’d heard a shout, though Sherlock didn’t hear anything. _”I’ve got to go. I’ll try calling tomorrow if it’s not too busy. I love you.”_

“I love -”

The signal went out before he could finish. Must have been an emergency.

Christmas. Just another day, he reminded himself, and gratefully answered Lestrade’s call to the newest crime scene.

The victim was approximately 55 years of age, male, balding, remarkably ordinary but for the rather obscure way he’d been positioned after death. Reclined on a beach towel, his limbs had been arranged to look like he was making a snow-angel, and his tongue had been replaced with a chocolate digestive.

Somewhere above him, he felt Lestrade go stiff. “Sherlock.”

He ignored him, and knelt closer to the body. There were barbecue skewers sticking straight out of his eyes, painted red like laser beams.

“Sherlock.”

Again, not worth his time, not when things were just getting interesting. Sherlock moved down the body, trying to puzzle out the significance of the bangles and cobra-shaped ring.

“Sherlock!”

“What, Lestrade?” he finally snapped, straightening to his full height in order to tower angrily over the DI. “Honestly, what is it? Can’t you see I’m trying to focus?”

Focus on anything but how much he missed John, wished the soldier was standing at his side making stupid observations instead of a continent away doing god-knows-what.

Focus on anything but the piercing ache in his chest that was all John’s fault anyway, this sentimentality that made him long for his lover’s touch even more when there was holly in windows and children prattling on about if they were good enough this year.

Focus on anything but the fact that it was Christmas and he was alone. Even his stupid brother would be a welcome sight.

Lestrade was on his phone - when had it rung? He really must have been concentrating very hard - and looked almost comically alarmed. “It’s your landlady, she says there’s a funny smell coming from your flat and she’s lost her keys,” he explained.

Mrs. Hudson, losing her keys? That was odd, in and of itself. Though, the landlady was getting on in years, he supposed, and he’d noticed her getting more forgetful lately; her mind must be going, what a shame. The smell was a bit worrisome, as well, since he hadn’t any experiments on that would cause an offensive odor, even if he did miscalculate (which he did not, thank you very much). Could be a gas leak.

He let out a sigh and gave the body one last lingering look.

 _Better safe than sorry,_ a voice that sounded remarkably like John’s murmured in his ear. Blast, if the flat blew up then John’s gift would go as well. Not to mention the shorter man would be awfully upset if their home was destroyed. He was more sentimental about the flat.

Well, alright, Sherlock was fond of the place too. He would have to go.

“I’ll be back in an hour - don’t touch anything,” he ordered, to the mass ignorance of the lot of them. As soon as he stepped away Anderson started instructing his crew to pack everything up.

Bloody Anderson was _not_ going to ruin the only interesting thing about his Christmas.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, turning back to the crime scene and getting as close to Anderson’s annoying mug as he felt safe without vomiting.

Anderson turned and scowled in his face. “We’re packing up. It’s our case, not yours, Freak. Just because you’re miserable on Christmas doesn’t mean we don’t have families to go home to, so why don’t you run along your merry little Freakish way and -”

Well, he had asked for it, even if - in hindsight - Sherlock realized that punching the forensic analyst was not the best idea. It wasn’t his fault he’d already been having a rubbish month, and now a rubbish day, and the idiot’s face had just been begging for it!

Donovan had a hand over her mouth to hide the fact that she was laughing so hard no sounds were coming out. Lestrade looked theatrically apoplectic. Anderson sat submissively on the ground and held his jaw.

“You’re off the case, Sherlock!” roared the DI. “Get in a cab, go home, and stay there! I mean it; you are not allowed back until I call you, which won’t be for a _very long time!_ ”

Something seemed off about the precision of Lestrade’s reprimand, Sally’s laughter, and Anderson’s complete lack of an attempt to fight back. There was a very...orchestrated feel to all of this.

Ah, well. Probably just his bad mood filtering in.

He trudged back to the street and hailed a cab, a perfectly extraordinary black mood settling in as the vehicle crawled through the cheerfully-decorated streets. Everywhere he looked there were smiling faces, all of them awash in the joy of the holiday, while Sherlock was alone.

(Realistically, there were probably just as many scowling faces as there were joyous ones. However, when one is determined to be in a bad mood, they choose not to see the things that soften said mood. Instead, they only see the things that will supplement their misery. It’s very masochistic, really, and Sherlock reveled in it.)

Mrs. Hudson was fiddling with a camcorder when he returned to Baker Street, and before he could start up the stairs she had him by the arm. “One moment, love!” she twittered anxiously, red-faced with apparent concern for her building. “I want to get it on camera. For insurance, you know.”

“Why would you need to record a video of a smell?” he asked, bemused, but once again pegged the urge to the old lady’s mind going. By the time the camera was up and running he’d already forgiven her. She was too good to him, anyway.

“Go on now, dear, open the door,” she urged, giving him a small push.

Rolling his eyes at all the theatrics that seemed to pop up whenever a camera was on, Sherlock trudged up the seventeen steps to the flat, feet feeling heavy knowing that John would not, in fact, be waiting for him there. He didn’t notice a smell at all; most likely, Mrs. Hudson had imagined the whole thing and had simply needed an excuse to get into the flat - probably to steal his skull again. Or even to - he shuddered at the thought - decorate.

Only John was allowed to decorate the flat at Christmastime.

He pulled out his key and opened the door with ease, still feeling odd with Mrs. Hudson’s camera trained on him. As he was turning to tell her there was nothing to worry about, something in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned back to the flat.

It had been decorated - sparsely, yes, but still. Fairy lights were arranged in two rows on the floor, making a blinking path from the door into the sitting room, where a modest tree had been set up without ornaments.

When he tried to turn back and ask just what the landlady thought she was doing, she gave him another nudge, beaming, and went through the kitchen into the sitting room with the camera.

Mycroft’s refusal to so much as talk to him about his Christmas plans before running away to India. Mrs. Hudson’s sudden onset of unusual behavior, hidden under the guise of old age. John’s excessive time spent online, planning. Lestrade being patient with him. Donovan smiling at a crime scene. Anderson provoking him until he was sent home at the perfect moment.

Never had seven steps seemed more difficult in all his life until he took the trek around the sofa into the sitting room...to find John sitting under the tree in his fatigues, grinning at him.

Even as part of his mind had expected it, the rest of it rebelled - no, John couldn’t be here, he was in Afghanistan getting shot at again, this was all a disturbingly elaborate dream - and he stumbled backwards into the wall with a hand clasped over his mouth as the sight solidified and became all too real.

It occurred to him that he must look like a toddler about to wet themselves as John stood up from his place under the tree and stepped forward.

“Didn’t have time to wrap your gift for you,” he grinned, but then stuck a bow to his chest. “Happy Chri-!”

The rest of his words were muffled by the shoulder of Sherlock’s coat as he threw his arms around him. His heart was galloping in his chest as he clung to John, fingers digging painfully into the material of his uniform while John held him tight, assuring him that _it’s okay, Sherlock. It’s alright. I’m here. Oh, love, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that, honestly thought you’d figure it out the moment we planned it out..._

The concept of air was abstract and painful to the detective. His eyes were stinging and spilling over as he hid his face, hot and embarrassed by this unexpected display of emotion. This was...oh, bloody hell, it was a Christmas Miracle, wasn’t it? He would never live this down, and wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to.

Smiling into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, John murmured, “Love you, Sherlock.”

He heard Mrs. Hudson sniffle from behind her camera and replied, “I love you, John.”

That much was certain. That, and the fact that Mycroft and everyone at NSY who had helped orchestrate this whole embarrassing affair was going to _pay_.

 _Especially_ if they wound up on YouTube by morning.


End file.
